Nothing to me but Naismith. Miles looks sick again, but at least this time, he feels the maple mead burning him up from the inside too. It hits too close to home, in a way, but fuck, this is home, this is him. If he'd been out in the field having seizures instead of rocketing around the Moira, would he have made the same decision? No. Hell, no. He can't bring himself to believe that.

He swallows thickly, watching himself hate himself, and Miles has never seen it reflected back at him like this, the most uncomfortable mirror. Suddenly he wishes he'd gone first.

"Nothing?" Miles's voice comes out soft, and he's clutching his cup just as tight. He struggles to meet his older self's eyes again, biting hard on the inside of his cheek. Somehow, that's not what he'd been expecting.